


Asking for it

by Helenish



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-05
Updated: 2013-04-05
Packaged: 2017-12-07 11:45:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/748160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helenish/pseuds/Helenish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story about people, places, things, and alpha twins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Asking for it

**Author's Note:**

> with thanks to Starbolin, for reading this and asking me things about it.

"Whatever you did," Derek says, looking down at the papers in his hands, a couple blurry cell phone pictures, one map, a long article written in a language he doesn't know. "Whatever you think you had to do for this, you—I didn't want—"

"Yeah, it was a real hardship getting my dick sucked,” Stiles says carelessly, leaning across Derek’s kitchen table and turning the map towards him, squinting down at it. 

“Fine,” Derek says, keeps his voice even. He should be used to it by now—he _is_ used to it, Stiles rattling around town with those twins, screwing both of them, showing up late when they’re supposed to meet, distracted, fuck marks on his body. He’s scrubbed clean tonight, the whorl of hair at the crown of his head still damp. “But I didn’t ask—“ he says.

“That’s true,” Stiles says, cutting him off, voice bright and harsh. “You never asked.” 

Derek looks down again so he doesn’t have to look at Stiles’ face. “Okay,” he says. Stiles used to fill in every space between them with words, he used to look at Derek, speculative, smile down at his hands. He was waiting, losing patience, Derek too slow and stupid to notice in time. Stiles is quieter lately, watchful, a tightly wound spring, and his jokes have a ruthless, discontented edge to them. 

“Was there a token?” Derek says, after they stare at the map in silence for a while. “A—talisman?” Stiles shakes his head. Derek thinks about Stiles, asking too many questions, Deucalion actually getting a good look at the piece of ass his guys brought home, Stiles in the wrong room, touching something he shouldn’t, one of Deucalion’s thugs getting bored and deciding to play a little game, keep things interesting, Stiles’ mouth, burst open and bloody, eyes unseeing.

Be careful, Derek wants to say, knows Stiles will look at him, cool, scornful, make it into a joke.

“No fucking way,” Scott said, the one ugly little meeting they managed to cobble together, Stiles, arms folded, leaning back against the wall, Isaac’s eyes darting between Derek and Scott, and what none of them would mention—Erica and Boyd, long gone. “You know it’s a trap, Stiles, you know—“

“Yeah, thanks,” Stiles said tightly. “I’m not a moron, they think I’m a sad, lonely dork who’s desperate for a little—“ he hesitated over it, the space of a breath, pushed forward, “attention—“

“So don’t go,” Scott said. 

“Sure, okay,” Stiles said. Derek saw it, in the way his chin dipped, the way his eyes slipped over Isaac and Scott, sitting next to each other, the caustic, unhappy curl of his mouth; he wouldn’t change his mind.

“They’re using you,” Derek says, in spite of himself. Stiles’ eyes widen a little, mocking, 

“Doing a good job of it, too,” he says. There are marks all over him, fingerprints on his arms and throat, and he smells unfamiliarly satisfied, down to his bones, fucked hard, teeth set against the back of his neck.

“If they promised you anything—“

“Like what?” Stiles says. 

“You think they want to turn you?” Derek says, hesitating. Maybe they do; maybe Stiles—this Stiles, restless and wanting—will say yes.

Stiles laughs, incredulous. “No,” he says. 

*

It took Derek an embarrassingly long time to figure out that the alpha pack was uninterested in him, his pack, except as a potential complication. There was something they wanted, some physical protection, maybe, a spell they thought they could work, something wrapped up in the physical place of Beacon Hills, and nothing to do with Derek’s pack at all. Deucalion told him as much when they ran into each other at the base of a hiking trail.

“It’s nothing personal,” he said, staring at Derek’s Nikes in obvious amusement; he was wearing a pair of huge, heavy leather biker boots, worn at the heels, a stupid thing to go trail running in, Derek thought defensively. “Of course I’ll appreciate your consideration in allowing me to pursue my affairs without any interference.”

“What’s in it for me?” Derek said, pushing down the lurch of dread in his throat. Deucalion smirked.

“I think you’re not quite that stupid,” he said lazily. “But I’m willing to be convinced.” 

Fucker, Derek thought. He said, “I’ll stay out of your way if you stay out of mine.”

That was the plan until Stiles showed up, mouth well-kissed, tired circles under his eyes, and said, “You want what they’re here for, don’t you?”

“They can’t know,” _that we’re working together_ , Derek almost said. They weren’t. “that you’re—talking to me.”

“They don’t care what I do,” Stiles said. 

“Do you think they—will they keep you safe if Deucalion finds out you’re telling me—“

“No,” Stiles said quickly, a raw flinch of hurt in his voice. Derek hadn’t meant it like that, had thought—maybe they liked Stiles, took him parking because they wanted to kiss him, see his cheeks get flushed, eyes go soft and dark, didn’t see how anyone could meet Stiles and not want to keep him safe.

“I can keep a secret,” Stiles said, mouth flat. I bet, Derek thought. Stiles was quiet in his body, a few degrees too warm, nothing anyone else would notice.

“What about Scott?” he asked.

“What about him?” Stiles said, meeting his eyes. “He’s busy. You’re not.”

*

He sees them once; it’s habit, looping down past the long deserted strip-mall parking lot at the edge of town, Scott’s house, Erica’s, Boyd’s, Isaac’s, wide berth around the toney subdivision where the Argents live, back along the older, modest houses at the edge of town near the forest, Stiles’ house, and he hears Stiles’ heartbeat, pounding out a rolling beat, too fast. When he turns back he sees them in the window: Stiles, back arched, mouth open, the top of the curve of his spine down to his waist, the narrow lines of his ribcage. He's kneeling on the floor of his bedroom, one of them holding his hands tightly behind his back, leaning in to put a sucking kiss on nape of Stiles’ neck, Stiles’ head thrown back, until the other one steps into view and drags Stiles’ head towards him, fingers twisted in his hair, holds him still and nudges his cock into his mouth in a series of rough short thrusts, more detail than Derek should be able to see from his vantage point, far beyond the property line, more than he ever wanted to see, Stiles shuddering with it, willing. Derek thinks about after, how hard they'll make him come, if they'll clean him up, if they'll just leave him there, if Stiles will limp when he comes down the stairs for dinner, what kind of lies he's telling his father. It’s none of his business; he goes home.

*

Derek thought about it, couldn’t help it: Stiles’ knees bracketing him, Stiles leaning down over him, grinning, brushing their lips together, soft and then deeper, rubbing off against Derek, letting Derek jerk him off, roll him over and jerk off on him, Stiles’ mouth on him, lips parted wet over the crown of his dick, Stiles bent over for him, Stiles’ hand, spread wide on Derek’s back, fingers in him, rough, he thought about it, he never did anything about it.

The next time Derek sees him, weeks later, Stiles is wearing a sweatshirt, carelessly open, a t-shirt underneath, pretty thin, something old that Derek faintly recognizes, the fraying hem, the faded logo; it fits a little closer to his chest, the long line of his torso, than it used to, maybe he doesn’t realize. His nipples are hard, one a little swollen, pressing tenderly against the cotton of the shirt; he cleaned up and came over right after.

“I can help you,” Derek says, slowly. “If it comes to that. If you need help.”

“I’ll put you on speed dial,” Stiles says, the corner of his mouth lifting into a grin, eyelashes sweeping his cheeks; it feels enough like an invitation that Derek scowls and looks away, can’t stop himself from saying,

“What made you think it was a good idea to let them into your house? If your father—“

“They’re in my study group,” Stiles says. Derek’s disbelief must show on his face, because Stiles laughs, grinding, mirthless. “My dad thinks I’m helping them catch up, that I’m finally over whatever was—anyhow, that I’m more like my old self.”

“Who’s that?” Derek says.

“Beats the hell out of me,” Stiles says.

*

“How’s Scott,” Derek asks Isaac, finally, trying to make it less awkward. Isaac comes by after school sometimes, shows up for the full moon, usually when Derek’s been pushing off shifting for hours, not wanting to run alone.

“He’s okay,” Isaac says, a little warily. 

“I’m not asking you to spy on him,” Derek says. 

“I know,” Isaac says, too quickly. 

“Fine,” Derek says. 

“He had a pretty big, um—fight, with Stiles,” Isaac says, after a moment. 

“Okay,” Derek says. They run. 

*

The house is all tall glass windows, long, warm-wood farmhouse kitchen opening onto a generous porch, a quiet grassy lawn. Deucalion gets Derek a beer, thumbs the cap off with a claw. Derek takes a sip, keeps his body quiet; Deucalion had cornered him coming down off a run, invited him for a drink, all very friendly.

“This is a nice place,” Derek says, taking a seat on deck chair. “Roomy.” 

“Housing market’s a little depressed around here,” Deucalion says. “Quite a few good rentals available.”

“Planning to stick around?” Derek says. He peels up the corner of the label with his thumbnail. “Not, um—concluding your business as quickly as you thought you could?”

“No,” Deucalion says, his mouth setting into an unpleasant smile. He’s a handsome guy, sandy blond hair, angular, stubbled jawline.

“You should know,” Derek says. “There’s a pretty good art house theater on Grove. Historical Society has an interesting traveling exhibition in from Sacramento. If you have a library card, you can—“

“I hope you’re finding this amusing,” Deucalion says. 

“Just being friendly,” Derek says, and takes another drink, just as one of the—twins—ambles down the back staircase into the kitchen, shirtless, wearing a pair of jeans, belt undone. He leans in and grabs a carton of orange juice out of the refrigerator, takes a few long gulps and leaves the carton on the counter before going back up the stairs, unhurried.

“Kids,” Deucalion says, easily. Derek hears it then, smells it, through the open veranda door, Stiles, his sweat, his come. He was taught to ignore personal—matters—as a child before he was taught to read; living in close quarters with a pack necessitated it. It was rude and intrusive to eavesdrop, became automatic with practice. Derek’s been keeping his attention trained entirely on the waiting threat of Deucalion, but the smell catches him off guard, blows out the radius of his senses, and he hears it, a hot hoarse moan, rhythmic, like it’s being shoved in stuttering gasps out of Stiles’ throat. The door opens, closes; after a moment the bedsprings creak and Stiles’ moans go muffled, low, choked.

“That human of yours,” Deucalion says, lets it sit there, one of them is cursing, muttering thickly, “ _fuck you, gonna fuck you slut, fuck you open_ ,” and Stiles is whimpering, heartbeat wild.

“He’s not mine,” Derek says. He practiced this, didn’t really need to; it’s true. “He’s—“ Deucalion’s watching him, ready to smell the lie, and Derek shrugs and says, “Bitten wolves have human—attachments, it’s to be expected.”

“You allow it,” Deucalion says, mouth curling dismissively. Derek lets himself smile.

“Your guys sound pretty attached,” he says.

“They’re bored,” Deucalion says. “I wouldn’t—“ Stiles cries out, sharp and wanting, says, “ _please, please, please, pl—, please,_ ”— “call it a sentimental attachment,” and what he means is that there’s nothing that belongs to Derek that he can’t take away.

“Well,” Derek says, after a moment, watching Deucalion’s feral grin. “you know those little goats they keep in racehorse stalls to keep the horses happy?” 

“Sure,” Deucalion says.

“Cheap to feed,” Derek said. “but no one’s too worried about who’s fucking the goat.” 

“I see, we’re doing you a favor, is that it?” Deucalion says.

“He’s not pack,” Derek says. “If your guys get something out of it—“ he lifts a shoulder, drinks.

“Well, Derek,” Deucalion says, folding his hands like a middle school principal. “I think you’re lying.”

“Okay,” Derek says. “Have it your way. He’s been tagging along around the pack for a year, I haven’t bothered to give him the bite, so he’s almost been killed a few times, and your boys have been fucking him raw since, what, September, but you’re probably right. It’s keeping me up nights.”

*

Stiles comes to see him once, after, come leaking out of him.

“Don’t you want to know,” he says. “What they do?”

“Why do you think I care?” 

Stiles laughs. “You’re a pretty good liar,” he says. 

“Thank you,” Derek says.

“Not that good,” Stiles says, and then, low and almost affectionate, “Goatfucker,” which startles a laugh out of Derek. 

“They didn’t—uh,” he takes a breath and swallows, throat dry. He was going to leave Stiles alone, he was never going to touch him, he was going to wait until after college, maybe, if Stiles didn’t come home paired up, serious, if he bothered to come back from college at all. If they still—. If Stiles still—. Derek was going to buy him a coffee and they were going to make out, soft, he was going to make love to Stiles, fold himself up around him. He hasn’t thought about any of that lately; he’s been thinking about Stiles, mouth on his dick, choking on it, how Stiles would look, face down on his couch, one arm twisted up behind him, coming. 

“They didn’t take care of you tonight?” he says, low.

“They took care of me,” Stiles says. His eyes are on Derek’s face, avid.

“Good,” Derek says. His voice sounds wrong, he can’t keep it steady. “That’s good, if they, uh—“ 

“I want to see you,” Stiles says. “I think about you.” His eyelids are heavy, lower lip a little swollen; one of them fucked his mouth open, split the corner, there are finger marks on his jaw, “Get out your dick,” he says. 

“Stiles,” Derek says, hears how weak his voice sounds, his heart thundering in his ears.

“Deucalion says I’m a,“ Stiles licks his lower lip. “a pricktease, that—walking around like this is an invitation, lets everyone know what kind of bitch you are—“

“He’s right,” Derek says. “Has he—“ _touched you, fucked you._

“No,” Stiles says. 

“We shouldn’t—“ Derek feels himself blushing, the back of his neck and his ears, his throat, 

“I don’t care,” Stiles says. “Get your dick out,” and Derek reaches down and does it, opens his belt with clumsy fingers, struggles the zipper down over his dick, already hard, aching with it, with the way Stiles smells and the scornful twist of his mouth and the lax, easy fucked-out length of him.

“I wanna—“ Stiles’ hands clench into fists, release. “I wanna suck you. I want you to eat me out before you fuck me.”

“They’d smell me on you, if I touched you,” Derek says. He can’t—he doesn’t know where to look, Stiles’ pretty mouth, his eyes, the hot red marks on his throat.

“I’m not stupid,” Stiles says, withering. “They mark me, they like to pull out and come on me, do you do that?”

“Have to try it, I guess,” Derek says. 

“You’ve never done it,“ Stiles says, forehead creasing.

“Not all of us are—“ Derek swallows. Stiles is closer, he smells like come, like wolf, like bruised skin, 

“Fucking sluts like me, you mean,” Stiles says. “Asking for it—“

“Yeah,” Derek says, voice scraped raw.

Stiles licks his lower lip. “I—“

“But I’d be a bitch for you,” Derek says, interrupting him. “Get wet for you, get—“

“Shut up,” Stiles says, “or I’ll do it.”

“What?”

“Put my fucking dick in your mouth, bitch,” Stiles says. His voice shakes. Derek’s hands are flat on the couch next to his legs, his fingers flexing a little, his cock stiff, foreskin slipping back, the rim of it wet.

Stiles boosts himself up on the workbench that Derek keeps shoved up against the wall, thighs spread; he’s hard, the shape of his dick visible through his jeans. “Get yourself off,” he says, and Derek does, under Stiles’ burning gaze, his bitten lower lip, his hands, tightening over the edge of the table until his knuckles are white.

*

Stiles doesn’t stay, after—slips down off the counter while Derek is still dragging in harsh, gulping breaths, his shirt wet with come, says,

“I—um, sorry,” and goes out the back door. In the morning, Derek finds the text: “ _sorry._ ” it says. Derek lets it sit, all day; he doesn’t know what to say. Asking for it, fuck; the whole thing was his fault. “ _Won’t happen again_ ,” he texts back, finally. Stiles doesn’t answer; he stops coming around.

*

They have a dropbox at the Mailboxes Etc. in a strip mall with a grocery store and a pizza place, a Laundromat, a Chinese restaurant, a hardware store, places both of them have frequent reasons to be; Deucalion sends out his guys to follow Derek every once in a while, but it’s cursory, probably just to get them out of the house. They don’t get close. Stiles e-mails him mostly, but leaves him things as well; he finds the talisman, leaves Derek a plastic bag filled with shards of glass, leaves him a crumpled, waterstained map, all but unreadable, once.

Deucalion will fuck him eventually, bend him over, hand on his neck, sink into him; what belongs to a pack belongs to the alpha, when he decides to take it. Deucalion will bite him maybe—probably not; Derek thinks about biting him, about putting his teeth to the back of Stiles’ neck and Stiles rearing back and headbutting him in the face, Stiles furious, glaring, Stiles saying “What the fuck was that, you fucking asshole?”, Stiles’ hand in his hair jerking Derek’s mouth down towards his dick, Stiles smiling a little after, indulgent, letting Derek fuck him as hard as he wants.

He thinks about just leaving Stiles a note, about Deucalion, in case he doesn’t want—but there doesn’t seem to be much of anything that Stiles doesn’t want, lately. They’d look good together, Stiles loose, fucked wet already, keening softly while Deucalion rutted him open, kissing him maybe, eating up his cries, one hand rough and sure on Stiles’ jaw, pressing his mouth open at the hinge, Stiles’ hips moving in restless well-learned jerks. Derek thinks about Deucalion pressing his teeth into Stiles’ shoulder in the moment of his orgasm, Stiles’ body seizing up underneath him in shuddering, helpless wave.

Stops thinking about it before his dick gets raw.

*

Kali buys him a drink he doesn’t want at a bar he goes to for something to do.

“You don’t live at the house,” he says. 

“I’m not really a joiner,” she says, giving him a long, warm, once-over. Derek’s fucked people before, he’s not a prude, he’s had one-night stands. He thinks about going home with her, can’t begin to imagine it.

“A lone wolf,” Derek says.

“Yeah, Deucalion said you were a smart ass,” she says.

“Um,” Derek says, squinting in surprise at her. “He did?” 

“Yeah,” she says, her lip curling in distaste. Derek takes a sip of his beer, another; it takes him a while but there’s no one to interrupt him, so he gets there eventually.

“You seem like a really fun person,” he says. She stares at him for a moment, eyebrows arched; she’s very beautiful. Then she picks up her handbag and slides off the bar stool without a word. “I bet you’re a blast at parties,” Derek says, but only to himself.

The bartender comps him a drink, putting it down on the bar with a flourish, “In honor of one hell of a strike out,” he says.

“My lucky night,” Derek says, tips him a twenty when he goes, wedged under his glass.

*

It’s his lucky week; he’s dropping a double-bagged plastic sack from the grocery store in front of Deucalion by Friday.

“Sure you want to do this?” Deucalion says.

“It’s a fucking rock,” Derek says. Stiles sent him a blurry cameraphone picture on Tuesday, a symbol that slowly resolved itself into a map in Derek’s mind, a trail he knew, up past the abandoned saw mill, above the rushing river, he’s run it a thousand times, carried in a baby backpack, piggybacked by Laura, holding hands with Kate, alone, alone, in the dark great moonless nights, chasing Isaac after giving him a head start, never noticed the smooth, flat stone in the mud at the edge of the river. It burnt his fingers the first time he touched it; he had to wrap his sweater around it and dig it out of the ground with a stick. “Take it, I’ll get another one,” he says. Deucalion laughs. 

“I like you, man,” he says. 

“Well, I’m a great guy,” Derek says. “A real giver. When are you leaving town?”

Deucalion’s laugh settles into a sneer. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I promise you I never had any designs on your sewage treatment runoff area you seem to think is worth so much.”

“Some of it’s a landfill,” Derek says, keeping his voice perfectly level, meeting Deucalion’s eyes. 

They’re gone the next week, the big house abandoned, windows dark. Stiles is furious, standing in Derek’s doorway, rain soaking through the shoulders of his jacket,

“is it true?” he says. “You cut a deal?”

“It was the best way,” Derek says.

“Go fuck yourself,” Stiles says, shoving past him into the kitchen, where Derek was washing dishes before going to bed. A pot, a bowl, a fork, a mug, “It was my work, my—you couldn’t even tell me?”

“No,” Derek said. “You—“

“You didn’t trust me,” Stiles says, his voice leaking hurt.

“That’s not—“ Derek says, as gently as he can. “You were distracted. I couldn’t know how your loyalties might be shifting—“

“You don’t know anything about it,” Stiles says, jaw tight. “You don’t—“

“How do you think I spent my junior year?” Derek bites out. Stiles looks away; he doesn’t need to do the math anymore.

“I don’t, um—“ he says.

“You think you’re the only person who ever felt like a worthless piece of shit?” 

Stiles is silent for a long time; Derek can hear him swallowing, the convulsive jog of his throat. Once, twice; when he speaks, his voice is shaken, clogged with sorrow. “That’s not why,” he says. 

“Okay,” Derek says.

“It’s not,” Stiles says, insistent.

“Fine,” Derek says, picking up a sponge and starting to scrub down the counter where he spilled soup earlier.

“Are you—“ Stiles’ fists clench, release. “I think you’re jealous.”

“No shit,” Derek says, dropping the sponge in the sink. He can feel his body trembling, reckless, angry. “I only wish I had spent this fall sucking cock, being—getting deep-dicked by assholes, not giving a flying fuck about whether my friends were going to find me face down in a ditch with my throat slit, that sounds like paradise.”

“That wasn’t—I wasn’t—you never said,” Stiles stammers. Derek shrugs.

“You tell me,” he says. “Was there anything I could have said to you that would have made you reconsider being a—“ pricktease, slut, bitch, words he was taught never to say, “jizz rag—“

“Didn’t seem to bother you much the time we—” Stiles starts.

“That was a mistake,” Derek says, cutting him off. Stiles rocks back on his heels, eyes widening; the blood drains out of his face. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

“I shouldn’t have done that,” Derek says. Stiles is nodding, too quickly, avoiding his eyes. “I’m sorry,” Derek says.

“It’s fine,” Stiles says. “Yeah. that’s fine.”

*

But Stiles is better after that, seems better, somehow makes it up with Scott, spends the summer lounging around on his porch and doing some kind of internship at the Sheriff’s office. Derek sees him, driving by, heaving trash bags into a dumpster, horsing around in the parking lot with Scott washing the squad cars. Derek avoids Stiles as best he can. It’s not easy because Scott shows up at his place, shakes his hand, sweaty-palmed, resolute, says they should figure out what’s going to happen when he goes to college next year, have a plan, and Stiles goes where Scott goes, until Derek can’t get away from him, until everyone’s over, Stiles and Scott and Isaac, and Derek’s trying to find some chips or pretzels or something to give them and Stiles is standing in his kitchen, saying,

“Derek. Stop. I get it.”

“What?” Derek says, straightening. He has a half a bag of corn chips.

“You were right,” Stiles says. The living room is right next to the kitchen but Scott and Isaac are laughing over something, not paying attention. “Making the deal, what you—all of it,” he says, quick and low. “You needed me to stay focused. You did what you had to do, I’m not going to bother you for—“ he shrugs, reaches past Derek and grabs the chips out of his nerveless hand. “Sorry about—that I said you were jealous. I know you didn’t really want to.”

“That wasn’t—“ Derek says.

“You shouldn’t feel bad about it, man,” Stiles says, cutting him off. “I was doing the same thing with—I mean, lying about fucking—getting lied to—was kind of the theme of my year, so—“

“Did you think I was lying?” Derek says.

“Dude, I know you were lying,” Stiles says comfortably. 

“Derek, give it up,” Isaac yells. “You never have any food—“

“You were lying,” Stiles says firmly, and Derek nods, shaky, steps past him. He thinks—maybe Stiles will stick around, after, sprawled on the couch, thighs open, laugh, low and rough, eyes knowing, wait for Derek kneel between his knees, put his hands on him. 

Stiles leaves with Scott. Derek cleans up, mops the floor, takes a shower, goes to bed, reads another chapter of a thriller he borrowed from the library, something with spies and raised, shiny letters on the cover.

*

Stiles comes over on a sunny Saturday afternoon, actually rings the doorbell.

“I swiped this for you this summer,” he says, putting a box down Derek’s wobbly coffee table; it’s wood, cracked and blackened along the edges. “There are a bunch of creepy documents and stuff inside,” he says.

“Thanks, I guess,” Derek says. The thing smells secret and angry; he’s going to have to keep it on the fire escape.

“Are you, um—“ Stiles hesitates, shifting on his feet. “Are you going to bite—give the bite to anyone?”

“No,” Derek says. Look how great it worked out last time, he wants to say. 

“But,” Stiles says.

“Why, you offering?” Derek says. 

“No, but—“

Derek turns away and starts picking up—the books and papers and half-filled notebooks in a cluttered heap on the edge of the couch, a pair of sneakers Isaac left a couple weeks ago that he’s been tripping over, a couple dirty coffee mugs, a rusty egg beater—one of the old crank handle ones—he found tucked up over the boiler and brought upstairs because he thought it looked cool.

“Two guys isn’t really a pack,” Stiles says quietly. “And Scott isn’t exactly—“

“I know how big my pack is,” Derek says, straightening. 

“Deucalion said—“

“I’m not him,” Derek says harshly. “I’m not some fucking psycho whose dick you’re sucking, so don’t—“ He bites the inside of his lip hard to make himself stop talking. Stiles stares at him; there’s a long, strange silence.

“Uh,” Stiles says. “Also I got you some cookies.” He has a plastic grocery sack that crinkles loudly when he lifts it. “Chips Ahoy,” he says.

“Sorry, ” Derek mutters. He thinks about Deucalion, telling the twins to go run a patrol, pulling Stiles down into the couch on top of him and sinking his fingers into him, Stiles pulling in a breath, asshole sore and wet still, Deucalion fingering him, making Stiles suck his cock for a while before fucking him, roughing him up a little, or maybe he never hurt him, just leaned in the doorway of the twins’ room until Stiles opened his eyes, helped him up off the bed and into the shower, tilted his chin up to check over the scratches on his throat, his chest, kissed his bruised mouth, took him to bed.

“If you wanted me to stop,” Stiles says, “you could have said—“

“Said what,” Derek says. Stiles is silent for a long time, and then he sighs, says, 

“Anything.” When Derek looks up, Stiles is smiling at him, pinched, rueful.

“I didn’t want—“ Stiles’ face falls. “I mean,” Derek says, faltering. “Seemed like—they made you feel good, right?” 

Stiles nods, eyes flickering sideways.

“And I’m not like them,” Derek says. “I can’t—“ 

“You don’t know unless you try,” Stiles says, voice cracking. He puts down the cookies. His hands drum, jittery, against his leg, echoing his heart rate, the nervous sweat Derek can smell springing up between his shoulderblades.

“Stiles,” Derek says helplessly.

“Just—you could. You wanna come over here and call me a jizz rag again?” Stiles says. Derek looks down, feels the tips of his ears heat up.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” he says. “I didn’t mean it.”

“Yeah, you did,” Stiles says.

“But I don’t—“ Derek huffs out a breath. “That’s not what I think.” 

“It’s not?” Stiles says uncertainly.

“No,” Derek says. 

“I just—come over here,” Stiles says. “Please?” and Derek nods, goes. His tongue feels like it’s sticking to the roof of his mouth. He puts his hand on the side of Stiles’ neck, tentatively, fingers just brushing the nape, and Stiles shudders. “Okay,” he says. “Is this okay?”

“Yeah,” Derek says, when he can get his voice to work. Stiles tilts his chin up until Derek takes the hint, leans in and sets his teeth against the edge of his jaw. Stiles goes still, sighs, heated, grateful, when Derek opens his mouth against his throat, and then reaches up and runs the back of his hand down Derek’s chest, down over the his belt buckle and heavy pressure of his dick in his pants. Derek is panting, quick, rough breaths making it hard to think, it doesn’t matter anyhow because Stiles nudges him back a few stumbling steps until the backs of his knees hit the couch, pushes him down and comes down on top of him, knees snugged tightly along Derek’s thighs.

“Now tell me—“ 

“No,” Derek says. He reaches up and cups Stiles’ face in his hands without thinking, rubs the heel of his hand along the line of his cheekbone. “I don’t—“

“You don’t have to say what you think,” Stiles says softly. 

“Oh,” Derek says. “I never—um. really thought about it that way.”

“Yeah, me either,” Stiles says. Derek presses his thumb to the corner of Stiles’ mouth and Stiles turns into it, eyes closing, Derek’s thumb snagging on the wet bow of his upper lip, bumping inside.

“Slut,” Derek says cautiously. Stiles laughs, a startled little sound in the back of his throat. “I can work on it,” Derek mumbles.

“No, that was good,” Stiles says, swaying in closer, and Derek brushes his mouth softly over Stiles’ and then wraps his hand over Stiles’ shoulder and tips him gently backwards off the couch, widening his knees so Stiles comes down in a tangle of limbs between his thighs, eyes wide. Derek keeps his hand on Stiles’ shoulder, thumb in the divot of his collarbone, 

“Like this?” he says, low, gut twisting at how Stiles looks, his shoulders shoving Derek’s knees apart when he leans in.

“D’you?” Stiles says. He puts his hand flat on the couch, next to Derek’s hip, careful not to touch him, a dark flicker of unease crossing his face. “like this?” 

Derek thinks about grabbing a handful of Stiles’ ass, later, spreading him open on the couch and sucking him, finishing him off that way, fingers inside him, thinks about fitting his dick into Stiles’ mouth, right now, right now, tries to think of what he’s supposed to say, choking on it, mind blank, sees Stiles’ eyes drop, jaw tightening in frustration,

“wait, I,” Derek says, drags open his belt one-handed, shoves the zipper down, tightening his hold on the back of Stiles’ neck. Stiles resists for a moment and then lurches forward, mouth open, Derek’s stiff dick smearing wetly along his cheek until he gets it in his mouth, lets the head slide against his lower lip.

“I’ve wanted you forever,” Derek hears himself say, and Stiles does pull back then, mouth opening in shock.

“Sorry,” Derek says. Stiles pulls in a shaky breath.

“I’ve never—done this,” he says. 

“Sorry,” Derek says again. “You don’t—“

“I can work on it,” Stiles says, leans in.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [How Is Your Heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/806011) by [cutloosemcgoose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cutloosemcgoose/pseuds/cutloosemcgoose)
  * [(Podfic of) Asking For It by Helenish](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1704674) by [chemm80](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chemm80/pseuds/chemm80)




End file.
